The Killer Next Door(22)

‘Never mind,’ says the Landlord. ‘I’ll have a glass of water instead.’

He goes to the sink. She totters backwards on her stupid shoes, not fast enough to avoid a brush from his arm as he approaches. For a brief moment he feels the softness of that little breast against his forearm, through her flimsy top. Feels goose bumps raise themselves where they’ve touched. Then she’s away, striding purposefully over to the bedside table and picking up her cigarettes as though this was always her intention. She turns back round, lights one and blows smoke towards the ceiling, amateurishly, without inhaling.

The Landlord slows his movements down as he selects a glass from the choice of two, mismatched, on the drainer. An Arcoroc tumbler, like they had at school, and which the bistro on the High Street affects for wine, to stimulate the nostalgia of the local self-improvers, and a pint glass, complete with Weights and Measures markings. She’s got a few more bits and bobs than she had last month: nothing matching, all cheap; stuff that pubs and cafés use on street tables. A couple of side plates, a soup bowl, a chunky glass latte mug in a metal cage. Teaspoons, a knife, a fork. Building herself a home, bit by bit, with pickings from the edges of other people’s lives. There’s a saucer on the floor, encrusted with the remains of something brownish. She’s feeding that bloody cat, he thinks. Oh, well. If I ever need to get rid of her, I can add it to the list of Whys.

He chooses the pint glass – the heat and the climbing have made him thirsty – and runs the cold tap for a half minute to pass off the warm. Fills the glass and turns back to face her, drinking. Looks her up and down over the top of his hand.

‘Aaaaah,’ he says, ‘that’s better. So how are you, then, love? All cosy? I see you’ve got yourself some new bedclothes.’

She looks affronted that he would mention the place where she sleeps, though they are both standing in full view of it. There are etiquettes to bedsits, and one of them is that you treat the bed, in company, like a sofa. The duvet is pushed over to one side, a polycotton sheet rucked up where she’s clearly been sleeping. Too hot for proper bedclothes. He wonders if she wears anything under that sheet, hopes that she doesn’t.

‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Ta.’

She finishes counting out her money, steps forward and places it, at arm’s length, on the drainer. Steps back, refolds her arms, tries to stare him down.

The Landlord gets out his handkerchief, takes off his specs, polishes them, then mops his face again and picks up the notes. Starts to count them, relishing her mounting tension as he does so. ‘You’ll find it’s all there,’ she tells him. Sucks another drag off her cigarette and flicks the ash into a grimy saucer on the nightstand.

‘You’re not smoking in bed, are you?’ he asks, once again violating the unspoken rule. ‘Only that’s a fire risk, you know.’

Cher shrugs. She’s not going to rise to the bait. The Landlord finishes counting, starts to count again, for the pure pleasure of it. ‘All right?’ asks Cher.

He reaches the end, rolls the notes up and snaps them in alongside Collette’s in his rubber band. Slips the money back into his trouser pocket. ‘Yup,’ he says. ‘That’s fine.’

‘Good,’ says Cher.

He picks up his water glass and takes another drink, studies her again as she taps her foot on the carpet. He wonders if he might extend things by sitting down for a minute, but the chair is piled with clothes. Her clean laundry, he assumes, as there’s a small heap of underwear and a couple of skirts kicked into a corner beyond the bed.

‘Well,’ she says, uncomfortably, ‘I must be getting on. People to do, things to see.’

The Landlord finishes his drink and puts his glass back on the draining board for her to wash up later. ‘Thing is, I wanted a little word.’

A little frown plays across her face. Suspicion, mixed with boredom.

‘Thing is,’ he continues, ‘I’ve been charging you well below market rent for this place. I felt sorry for you. Wanted to help you get on your feet. But I’m afraid the rent’s got to go up next month,’ he tells her.

Cher’s chin jerks up. ‘What?’

‘Yes,’ he says, and gives her his oiliest smile. ‘I’m afraid so.’

She doesn’t look so bored now. ‘But…’ she says, ‘hang on a minute!’

‘Yes?’ he says.

‘I’ve only been here four months.’

He spreads his hands in the air before him. ‘Sorry. Prices are rising all over the shop.’

‘How much are you talking?’